The Discipline of Desperation

''Lord, save me!'' (Matt. 14:30).

   In the Christian life there are hours of distresses, discouragement, darkness, and danger. There are also moments of despair, intense, exacting, excruciating; moments when life and death are in the balance, and we have no strength nor wisdom to top the balance in our favor. We cannot strive nor struggle, flee nor even faint; we can only cry unto God. If He hears us not, and helps us not, instantaneously, all is lost. Helpless is the heart that in that brief instant knows not to whom it can cry; on the contrary, happy is the heart, however harrowing may be the experience, that knows Him whose ear is not heavy that He cannot hear nor His arm shortened that He cannot save.

   The Scriptures reveal that some of our shortest prayers are our most effectual ones. In artlessness and helplessness Peter cried, ''Lord, save me'' (Matt. 14:30). We remember the circumstances; and in the split second that is ours to think of his predicament, we might be inclined to believe he had no reasonable cause for his cry. Had he not driven

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himself into this danger? His had been the shelter of the boat, which, to be sure was in the storm; but it was relatively safe. In his impetuosity, he had said to the shadowy figure on the sea, not visible because of the darkness of the night, ''Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water'' (vs. 28). Across the waves and through the darkness came in unmistakably sweet and strong tones, ''Come'' (vs. 29). In immediate and impulsive obedience, he climbed over the side of the boat ''to go to Jesus'' (vs. 29).

   We may not approve his impetuosity nor his human impertinence in attempting to walk on the sea; but we must admire his implicit obedience and his deep devotion to his Lord. Most of us are like the eleven, who did love their Lord, but preferred the security of the ship to the uncertainty of the sea. We will not venture beyond sight and sense, for we are not fools or fanatics. We adventure little for our Lord; and although we may know the reality of His presence, in darkness and danger, we have never known the strong hand of the Son of Man holding us up from certain and instant disaster, as did Peter. Who can fathom his feelings when, as he began to sink into the dark waves of Galilee where there was no standing, he felt the grasp of that Hand? Only the despairing know what is meant by the words, ''And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?'' (vs. 31). Doubt, and then a pointed, piercing prayer, ''Lord, save me''; and desperation had become the delight

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of salvation from the sea.

   The disciples also had learned something of this discipline of despair that leads to deliverance. They had been with the Lord Jesus on the Sea of Galilee on another night. They had put out to sea at sunset at His express command, ''Let us pass over unto the other side'' (Mk. 4:35). He was with them in the ship; and exhausted by the labors of the day, He had fallen asleep. ''There arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that it was being filled'' (vs. 37, mg.). The disciples were expert sailors and familiar with the sea, because some had been fishermen thereon; but now their skill and strength were of no avail. Except there be help at once, they were all lost.

   In despair they turned to Him still fast asleep on a pillow; and in the urgency of their extremity they cried, ''Master, carest thou not that we perish?'' (vs. 38).

   That terrible thought, ''Carest thou not?'' had been forming in their minds as the wind and waves rose higher, and the ship began to founder. Darkness of night, danger of storm, depths of sea with death all about them, then in desperation the disciples gave vent to their pent-up fears, ''Carest thou not that we perish?''

   The same is true of us today. We are fair-weather followers of the Good Shepherd, and refresh ourselves in green pastures and beside still waters; but as the darkness deepens and the danger rises, we wonder, ''Why has He not helped us by now? Does

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He not care?'' The Psalmist knew by firsthand experience the discipline of doubt that precedes that of despair; for he could sing in a minor key, ''In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord . . . I remembered God, and was troubled: I complained, and my spirit was overwhelmed . . . Will the Lord cast off forever? . . . Is his mercy clean gone forever? doth his promise fail forevermore? Hath God forgotten to be gracious? hath he in anger shut up his tender mercies?'' (Ps. 77:2-9).

   Our experience can be like his and that of the disciples. For them there was the gracious and immediate response, ''And he arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm . . . . And they feared exceedingly, and said one to another, What manner of man is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?'' (Mk. 4:39, 41). To be sure, they needed the gentle and searching question, as do we in the moment of despair, ''Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith?'' (vs. 40). For the Psalmist there came the assurance, ''Thy way, O God, is in the sanctuary: who is so great a God as our God? Thou art the God that doest wonders: thou hast declared thy strength among the people. . . . Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known'' (Ps. 77:13,14,19). The shriek of desperation becomes the song of deliverance!

   The unnamed Publican knew this discipline of soul (Luke 18:9-14). He had come to the end of

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himself. If he had been so minded, like many of his day and ours, he could have blamed his sinful condition upon his family background, his heritage, environment, circumstances, evil companions. He really never had a chance: a poor home, no education, the pitiless strife of the street, ward politics, the dishonesty and trickery of tax-gathering. Of course respectable people like yonder Pharisee despised him; he despised himself. Not only did he not blame his unhappy and unfortunate fate, he also laid no claim to any merit in God's sight, no prayers, no fasting, no tithing, nothing of the Law. He was just a miserable, lost sinner, an ''extortioner, unjust'' (vs. 11). He could only blame himself, and pray, ''God, be merciful to me, a sinner'' (vs. 13). And God had mercy upon him, instantly, completely; so that ''this man went down to his house justified'' (vs. 14).

   Discouragement in his struggle against himself and his sin had led him to utter despair: if there be no mercy with God, he was irretrievably lost. His experience was like that of David, who testified, ''For day and night thy hand was heavy upon me: my moisture is turned into drought of summer. I acknowledged my sin unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin'' (Ps. 32:4,5). The penitent soul that has come to see himself a lost sinner, with no blame on others or claim for merit can also testify, ''Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord. Lord,

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hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications. If thou, Lord, shouldst mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand? But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared'' (Ps. 130:1-4). Out of the mire of desperation to the mercy divine, so that there is the song of deliverance from sin!

   In his Thoughts for Life's Journey the late George Matheson of Scotland re-echoes this discipline of despair. ''My soul, reject not the place of thy prostration! It has ever been the robing room for royalty. Ask the great ones of the past what has been the spot of their prosperity; they will say, ''It was the cold ground on which I once was lying." Ask Abraham; he will point you to the sacrifice of Moriah. Ask Joseph; he will direct you to his dungeon. Ask Moses; he will date his fortune from his danger in the Nile. Ask Ruth; she will bid you build her monument in the field of her toil. Ask David; he will tell you that his songs came from the night. Ask Job; he will remind you that God answered him out of the whirlwind. Ask Peter; he will extol his submission in the sea. Ask John; he will give the palm at Patmos. Ask Paul; he will attribute his inspiration to the light that struck him blind. Ask one more—the Son of Man. Ask Him whence has come His rule over the world. He will answer, 'From the cold ground on which I was lying—the Gethsemane ground; I received my sceptre there' Thou too, my soul, shalt be garlanded by gethsemane. The cup thou fain wouldst pass from thee will be thy

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coronet in the sweet by-and-by. The hour of thy loneliness will crown thee. The day of thy depression will regale thee. It is thy desert that will break forth into singing; it is the trees of thy silent forest that will clap their hands.''¹

   Danger, darkness, defeat and death before us; and the cry of despair unto the Almighty that brings the crown of deliverance, into safety and light, victory and life! Disciplined by desperation we come to know the Strong Deliverer!

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¹George Matheson, Thoughts of Life's Journeys, (London: James Clarke & Co., 1907), pp. 266, 267.

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One By One

One by one the sands are flowing,

One by one the moments fall;

Some are coming, some are going;

Do not strive to grasp them all.

One by one thy duties wait thee,

Let thy whole strength go to each,

Let no future dreams elate thee,

Learn thou first what these can teach.

One by one (bright gifts from Heaven)

Joys are sent thee here below;

Take them readily when given,

Ready too to let them go.

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,

Do not fear an armed band;

One will fade as others greet thee;

Shadows passing through the land.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Do not linger with regretting,

Or for passing hours despond;

Nor, the daily toil forgetting,

Look too eagerly beyond.

Hours are golden links, God's token,

Reaching Heaven; but one by one

Take them, lest the chain be broken

Ere the pilgrimage be done.

                              —Adelaide A. Procter.*

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*From POEMS by Adelaide A. Procter. Used by permission of the publishers, Nimmo, Hay & Mitchell, Edinburgh.

Chapter Sixteen  ||  Table of Contents